The Warrior (16 page)

The room they were playing in spanned the width of the narrow building, like the room
below, but it had windows on both sides. One set overlooked the sea cliff, while the
ones on the opposite wall looked out toward the castle walls and the grassy fields
beyond.

Damn, damn, damn.
The windows were all less than a foot wide. He would have to find another way.

Duncan knew he should leave before the children saw him, but something made him pause
in the doorway to watch them.

“Not like that, ye wee fool!” the boy said.

Duncan considered intervening until he saw the amusement on the girl’s face.

“Hold it like this so I can’t plunge my blade into your belly.” The boy took the girl’s
arm and showed her how to hold her wooden sword. “Ye wouldn’t like that, would ye?”

The lass shook her head, sending her fair curls bouncing. “Ye wouldn’t do that to
me.”

“Of course I wouldn’t,” the lad said. “But someone else might try it one day, and
I won’t be here to protect ye.”

The girl dropped the point of her sword to the floor. “Why not?”

“I told ye before,” the lad said. “I’m going back to Ireland.”

The girl stuck out her bottom lip. “I don’t want ye to leave, Ragnall.”

Ragnall
. Duncan’s heart stopped in his chest. Had he stumbled upon Moira’s son?

“I must go back,” the lad said. “My mother needs me.”

L
ad, are you Ragnall MacQuillan?” Duncan asked as he stepped into the doorway to show
himself.

The children stopped their play, and the boy turned around to look at him. Duncan
fell back a step, as if he had taken a heavy blow—and he felt as if he had.

In that instant, he knew the truth.

And that Moira had lied to him.

The boy had Moira’s midnight-blue eyes, but all his other features were Duncan’s—including
his bright red hair. Although Duncan’s hair was a deep auburn now, it had been that
exact color when he was a bairn.

“Aye, I’m Ragnall.” The lad’s stance was stiff, his eyes cautious. “Who are you?”

Duncan was too stunned to speak for a moment, and then he was not sure how to answer.
Finally, he said, “My name is Duncan. I play the pipes.”

He understood now that it was no coincidence that Moira’s husband had exploded in
a murderous rage on the very night that Duncan arrived. When Sean saw Duncan, he must
have come to the same conclusion that Duncan had just now.

“How old are ye?” Duncan asked, needing to confirm it.

“I’m eight,” the girl said, tilting her head and sending her curls bouncing again.

“And you?” Duncan asked Ragnall.

Ragnall paused, as if weighing whether to answer, before he said, “Six and a half.”

Duncan heard Moira’s voice in his head.
Ragnall is five years old.
She had purposefully deceived him, and she had continued the deceit every day since.

If Moira would lie to him about his son, she would lie about anything.

How could she do it?
It was not for lack of opportunity that she’d failed to tell him the truth. Duncan
thought of all the times she’d mentioned her son—and worse, all the hours she lay
in his arms—and chose not to tell him.

How could Moira let him touch her in every intimate way and still keep this secret
from him? When they made love, he had believed their souls touched, but now he could
see that it was only his that was laid bare.

“What is your name?” Duncan asked the little girl.

“I’m Sarah,” the girl said with a bright smile.

“Someone downstairs was calling for ye,” Duncan said.

“Ach, that’s my nursemaid,” Sarah said and rolled her eyes.

Duncan would wager Sarah ran the poor woman ragged. “You’d best go to her.”

“Wait here,” Sarah said to Ragnall as she flew out the door. “I’ll be back as soon
as I can.”

Ragnall gazed up at him as if Duncan was a puzzle he was trying to solve.

“I’m a MacDonald,” Duncan said, “and a friend of your mother.”

“Where is she?” Ragnall asked, his eyes wide. “Is she safe?”

Ragnall looked so worried that Duncan instinctively put his hand on the lad’s head.
An unexpected rush of warmth went through him. This was his son, a gift Moira would
deny him no more.

“Your mother is safe with our clan at Dunscaith Castle,” Duncan said.

Ragnall studied him. “Ye could be lying.”

He was mistrustful for such a young lad. That was Sean’s doing.

“Come look out the window, and I’ll show ye that I speak the truth.” Duncan led the
boy to one of the windows that faced the wide fields behind the castle and lifted
him up on his knee.

“Look closely over there, to the southeast, at the edge of the field.” Duncan leaned
close so that their heads just touched as he pointed. “Can ye see him? He’s there,
crouching in the grass.”

The boy was quiet and squinted his eyes as he searched the distant field, then he
sucked in his breath.

“Sàr!” The single word was so full of emotion that Duncan felt his own throat close.

Whether it was The Sight or something else that made Ilysa suggest he bring the dog,
Duncan was grateful.

Ragnall turned to him so that they were eye-to-eye with their faces just inches apart
when he asked his question. “Have ye come to take me to my mother?”

Ragnall’s young face looked so hopeful that it pained Duncan. He wanted to take his
boy out of the castle this very moment, but he could not. The guards would not let
him take the MacQuillan chieftain’s son, and fighting his way out would be foolish.
Not only would he fail in his mission for his clan, but he would put the boy in danger.
He reminded himself that Ragnall was under the MacLeod chieftain’s protection here
and was safe.

“Can ye keep a secret?” Duncan asked, knowing he was taking an enormous risk trusting
a young child with such important information. “Even from your friend Sarah?”

Ragnall nodded. “I’m good at keeping secrets.”

Duncan was betting his life on it.

“I can’t do it now,” he said, “but I’ll be returning soon with a great many MacDonald
warriors to take this castle from the MacLeods. I’ll take ye home to your mother then.”

Ragnall’s eyebrows shot up. “An attack?” he asked, sounding excited. “How will ye
do it?”

“I’d hoped to find a window facing the sea that is wide enough for a man to fit through,”
Duncan said. “But the windows are all too small.”

Ragnall was quiet for a moment, then his face brightened. “The window in the tower
is bigger.”

“What tower?” Duncan asked.

“Ye can’t see it from the front of the castle,” Ragnall said. “No one goes there because
it’s haunted, but Sarah showed it to me. We play there sometimes.”

Duncan tried not to hope too much. “Can ye show me?”

“It’s through there,” Ragnall said, pointing to a low door in the far corner of the
room.

Duncan ducked his head as he followed Ragnall through the low doorway and up three
steps into a small, round room. The curved window looked to be two feet wide and two
feet tall. Duncan leaned out and looked down the sheer cliff to the sea below.

It just might be possible.

“Sarah says the nursemaid dropped the baby out that window,” Ragnall said. “That’s
why she can’t rest.”

Duncan was sorry for the woman and the babe, but the ghost story would be useful.
Ragnall listened with a serious expression as Duncan explained his plan.

“I’ll leave first thing in the morning,” Duncan said. “When I return, I’ll still be
pretending to be a piper. Ye must be careful not to give me away.”

Ragnall nodded.

“There will be a battle for the castle,” Duncan said, “but I will get ye out safely.”

It was Duncan’s first promise to his son, and he meant to be a father who kept his
promises.

In the meantime, he had a few choice words to say to the lad’s lying mother.

Erik’s gaze kept returning to the piper as he played for them after supper. The big,
red-haired musician puzzled him, and Erik had not risen to his position by ignoring
puzzles.

Listening to him play, Erik had to admit that the man was a true musician. In fact,
the piper was so caught up in his music that he appeared to be unaware of all the
lasses sighing over him. Still, the piper did not get the muscles rippling across
his broad back from blowing on his pipes. He moved with the grace and power of a lion—or
a Highland warrior.

It was time for a test. Erik picked up an apple from the platter in front of him and
waited until the piper was in the midst of a lively tune.

“Piper!” Erik called out as he threw the apple fast and hard straight at his head.

The piper caught the apple with one hand without dropping his instrument, took a bite,
and continued his tune, barely missing a beat, to a roar of applause. Erik narrowed
his eyes. Just as he suspected, this piper had the quick reflexes of a man who needed
them to stay alive.

Perhaps it meant nothing. But with that warrior’s build, Erik would wager this piper
could fight. He was like a man with a debauching nature who becomes a priest. Though
the priest might say fine prayers, he’d still have his hands on the lasses.

The piper said he was leaving in the morning, and Erik would be glad to see the back
of him.

M
oira still felt strange sitting in her old place at the high table when everything
else had changed—especially her. She glanced at Connor, who sat next to her in her
father’s chair. There was an awkwardness between them, and it was not just because
she was not accustomed to him being chieftain or because they had been apart for seven
years. Fair or not, Moira had not quite forgiven him for waiting so long to send someone
to Ireland to check on her welfare.

Sadness settled over her as she looked past Connor to where their older brother, as
tànaiste
, the chieftain’s successor, had always sat. Ragnall had been so like her father—brash
and bold and full of life.

Connor caught her eye, and said, “I miss him, too.”

Connor had always been both observant and perceptive. When they were young, she felt
as if he judged her and found her lacking. But then, she had been spoiled by her father,
who never found fault with her at all.

She remembered that Connor had also been close to Ragnall, though they could not be
more different, and put her hand over his.

“I’m glad you’re home,” Connor said and smiled at her.

Moira had been holding back from asking him about Duncan. She had not liked Connor’s
tone when he pressed her on that first day about whether there was something between
her and Duncan, but her brother’s warmth made her set aside her caution.

“Where did ye send Duncan?” she asked.

Connor’s expression did not change except for a slight tightening around his mouth,
but the warmth she’d felt from him a moment before was gone.

“I’ve been meaning to talk with ye about your future,” Connor said, ignoring her question
completely. “Let us speak in private.”

He stood and held out his hand, giving her no choice. With her fingers resting lightly
on Connor’s arm, they crossed the hall to the arched doorway that led to the chieftain’s
bedchamber.

A swell of emotion rose in Moira’s throat as she entered what had been her father’s
private sanctum. She could almost hear his booming voice calling for her. Shock replaced
fond recollections as she glanced about the once-grand chamber. Connor had stripped
it bare.

Gone were the beautiful tapestries, the ornate side tables, the velvet cushions, and
the enormous curtained bed. In their place were plain, rough-hewn chairs, a small
table, a battered chest that looked as if it had been retrieved from the sea, and
the bed she recognized as the one Connor had slept in as a boy.

She was both hurt and curious as to why her brother had been so intent on removing
every scrap of their father’s memory from his bedchamber. Before she could remark
upon it, Connor shut the door and spoke first.

“Ye must be more cautious about what ye say and where ye say it,” Connor said, fixing
his intent, silver-blue eyes on her. “Someone could have heard ye ask where I sent
Duncan.”

“Where did ye send him?” she asked.

“You’re not hearing me, Moira,” Connor said. “Hugh has spies in the castle. Ye could
endanger both Duncan and the clan by talking out of turn like that.”

“If anyone had told me where he’s gone and why,” she said, crossing her arms, “I wouldn’t
have to ask.”

Connor sighed as if she were a trial. “He’s on important clan business, and that’s
all ye need to know.”

“I was helping Father with important clan business while the four of ye were off having
your adventures,” she said, “so don’t give me that look as if I won’t understand.”

“If our father had wanted my help, I would have given it.” Connor spoke in a tone
devoid of emotion as he poured himself a cup of whiskey from the jug on the table.
He took a drink, and then said, “I sent Duncan alone into Trotternish Castle.”

Moira put her hand to her heart. “You what?”

When Connor told her the rest, Moira sat down hard on one of the chairs. She had trouble
getting her breath as she thought of Duncan in a castle full of their enemies, his
life dependent on this ruse.

“Ye must not breathe a word of this,” Connor said. “If Duncan is found out, the MacLeods
will skin him alive.”

“So why did ye send him?” Moira demanded. “He’s been your best friend all your life.”

“It was his idea,” Connor said.

“How can ye be so cold?” she asked. “Do ye not care about any of us?”

“I care about every member of this clan, which is why I let him go,” Connor said in
a voice so calm Moira wanted to slap him. “And while we’re discussing Duncan, just
what do ye plan to do about him?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Moira said, getting to her feet.

“Ach, ye were better at covering your tracks when ye were seventeen.” Connor took
another drink of his whiskey. “Do ye want to marry him?”

“I’m never getting married again,” Moira said, putting her hands on her hips. “Not
to Duncan. Not to anyone.”

“So you’re just toying with him again?” Connor said.

“
Toying with him?
” she said, her voice rising. “Who do ye think ye are, speaking to me like that, Connor
MacDonald? What I do is none of your concern.”

“I am chieftain of this clan, which means everything is my concern,” Connor said in
that same aggravatingly calm tone. “And, as my sister, what you do reflects on me.”

“If our clansmen don’t respect ye for yourself, nothing I do will change it.” And
because she was angry, she added, “Even after what our mother did to him, our father
commanded the respect of all the clans of the isles. So don’t blame me if they don’t
respect you.”

“I suppose you’re right about that.” Connor heaved a sigh and turned to look out the
narrow window.

Suddenly Moira noticed how careworn her brother looked and realized how heavily the
burden of leading their clan weighed upon him. Her father had not suffered the same.

“If we take Trotternish Castle, I expect we’ll have a few MacLeod hostages,” Connor
said. “I’ll try to make a trade for your son.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“That was Duncan’s idea as well,” Connor said, still looking out the window. “He said
he made a promise to you.”

“With all the plans to take Trotternish, I feared he had forgotten,” Moira said in
a soft voice.

“Duncan does not forget promises,” Connor said as he turned and fixed his penetrating
gaze on her. “And I’ve never known him to fail to keep one.”

A short time ago, Moira would have disagreed. But Duncan had only said he would love
her always. She was the one who thought that was a promise of marriage and a lifetime
together.

“I would still need to persuade the MacQuillans to let the lad foster here,” Connor
said, rubbing his forehead.

“I fear that will be no easy task,” Moira said.

“One thing is for certain—” Connor gave a dry laugh and shook his head. “—unless I
want a trail of dead MacQuillans, I won’t be sending you and Duncan to talk with them.”

Duncan stormed across Dunscaith’s courtyard and banged through the doors of the keep.
As he entered the hall, he did not notice—or care—if there were ten people or a hundred
in it. There was only one person he was looking for.

After learning he had a son, he’d had to suffer through an endless evening at Trotternish
Castle, playing tune after tune like a king’s fool. Then it had taken him two days
to travel home, with impatience and outrage burning at his soul the entire way.

As he crossed the hall, Ilysa appeared at his side. “Ye seem a bit upset,” she said,
picking up her skirts to walk fast enough to keep up with him. “Is there something
I can do?

“Where in the hell is Moira?”

“She’s in with Connor, but—”

That was all he needed to know.

The men guarding Connor’s door scrambled to step aside. Duncan pounded on the door
and did not wait to open it. As soon as he did, Moira filled his vision. She stood
in the center of the room with the light from the long, narrow windows playing across
her features.

The fury Duncan had banked since he learned the truth about Ragnall burst to the surface,
making his head pound and his skin feel too tight. In the far recesses of his mind,
the ever-alert warrior in him was aware of someone closing the door behind him. He
marched up to Moira until he was close enough to scorch her skin with the heat of
his temper.

Moira’s eyes went wide, but she stood her ground. It was never courage she lacked,
but any sense of loyalty and honor.

“Why did ye not tell me that Ragnall was mine?” Duncan asked, clenching his fists
to keep from picking her up and shaking her.

Moira’s mouth fell open, and her hand fluttered to her chest. “You saw Ragnall?”

“I did,” Duncan bit out, “and the lad is six and a half years old, not five as ye
told me. He has flaming red hair, Moira!”

“Where is he?” Moira leaned to the side to look behind him. “Did ye bring my son home
to me?”

Duncan jerked her in front of him to get her full attention. “Ragnall is at Trotternish
Castle, and he is not just
your
son.”

“Ye weren’t here to claim him,” she said, narrowing her eyes to angry slits. “So,
aye, Ragnall is
my
son.”

“How could I claim him if I didn’t know about him?” Duncan shouted. “Ye didn’t tell
me ye were pregnant.”

Moira wrenched free of him. Her breasts rose and fell in harsh breaths as her eyes
burned holes into him. “Ye didn’t bother staying to find out, did ye?”